


The Birthday Gift

by tinzelda



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:04:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinzelda/pseuds/tinzelda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In watching the Granada episode "The Copper Beeches," a friend and I noticed that Holmes sports some personal ornamentation that seemed un-Holmes-like, so of course we were forced to conclude that it was a gift from Watson. That was the seed for this story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Birthday Gift

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to vsee for the long, wonderful, snow day chat that inspired this story and for looking it over at, quite literally, a moment’s notice after I first madly typed it up. Thank you also to pharis for a quick and dirty last minute read.

Holmes claimed he had no wish to celebrate his birthday. At Watson’s insistence, he relented and only insisted in turn that he be the host rather than a guest at his own birthday dinner. Watson gracefully accepted and dressed quickly. Holmes wanted to leave as soon as possible.

Once resigned to the idea, Holmes was in surprisingly good humour. He looked dashing in his evening clothes, and his conversation was charming and lively throughout their superb meal. Watson had not been optimistic when they had started, knowing all too well that Holmes liked to have his own way, but could not have been more pleased with their evening.

It was not until their walk home that things took a turn for the worse. They started out well enough, with Holmes slipping his arm through Watson’s as they strolled, too sated from their rich meal to hurry. As they approached the noise and lights of another restaurant, far more fashionable than the one they had chosen, Holmes chuckled.

“Perhaps we should have dined there, Watson.”

“No, indeed,” Watson answered.

A coach stopped just ahead of them and spilled out its passengers, one of them an older man with a thick, gray beard. He was very smartly and expensively turned out. His obvious personal vanity seemed a bit absurd in a man his age, but it was his loud, grating voice to which Watson took an immediate dislike.

They were forced to wait as the large party slowly made their way from the coach steps into the restaurant. It would not have been so very bothersome if the well-dressed gentleman had not suddenly stopped in the middle of the pavement, crying out that he had lost his spectacles. There was an immediate rush back to the coach, far too many helping hands to be useful in looking for so small an item, and all was chaos.

“Sir,” Holmes called out. “I believe if you look in the inside pocket of your jacket, you’ll find what you were looking for.”

The man looked surprised at being so addressed, but he reached into his coat and pulled out the missing spectacles. The entire party let out exclamations of wonder, and Holmes took the opportunity to push his way through, dragging Watson with him.

When they were clear of the crowd, Holmes again drew close. “What marvelous foppery,” he murmured. “From his hat, to the gewgaws all over his waistcoat, to his many-buttoned spats.”

Watson looked back over his shoulder. He could see the gentleman’s watch chain, a heavy double Albert decorated with a large medallion. The bright yellow gold was gaudy even in the dim glow of the streetlights.

Holmes was now peering at Watson, curious as to why he did not at least chuckle. Usually contempt for the ridiculous was shared between them, and Watson had already noted the man’s elaborate dress, but Holmes’ casual joking made Watson himself feel ridiculous: the small, carefully wrapped package he had surreptitiously left on the mantle to be opened upon their return contained just such an ornament: a decorative fob for Holmes' watch chain.

It was not a showy piece, not in the slightest. It was rather elegant, in Watson’s opinion. Holmes did not customarily embellish his person in such a manner, but the fob had seemed to somehow belong to him from the moment Watson had seen it in the shop. Now he wished he had not spent so much on something so frivolous.

“Watson?”

“It’s rather chilly tonight,” Watson said. “Let’s walk more briskly.”

He tugged at Holmes’ arm and turned toward Baker Street, scrambling for a plan to remove the small box from the sitting room before Holmes spotted it.

When they reached home, Watson climbed the stairs immediately, without so much as removing his overcoat. Holmes was directly behind him, so he knew his time was limited. He made a beeline for the fireplace and grabbed the package but was struggling with his coat pocket when Holmes entered the room.

“Watson,” Holmes said, one eyebrow arched. “Is that for me?”

“I beg your pardon?” Watson knew that this was a completely ineffective strategy for delay, but he could think of nothing better.

“It is my birthday, Watson.”

“Yes.”

“It does seem to be of some importance to you to mark the occasion.”

“Yes, but—”

“And I admit, my dear Watson, that I have enjoyed our evening,” Holmes continued. “I promise not to complain if you wish to give me a present.”

There was no excuse to be made that would not seem churlish. Watson pulled the small package out of his pocket and gave it to Holmes, who moved across the room to his chair. He seated himself, crossing his legs neatly, and pulled at the bit of colored string. A brief amused glance in Watson’s direction made it clear that he was enjoying himself, and Watson desperately thought that he might be able to convince Holmes that the gift was not meant to be taken seriously.

In truth, however, Watson knew that he would be crushed the moment Holmes opened the box. Watson had not known what sort of reception he had expected, but now he was fully resigned to disaster. Holmes would not like the gift.

Holmes let the paper wrapping fall to the floor and looked up at Watson one last time before he opened the box. Watson felt his muscles tensing, bracing himself for Holmes' laughter or, worse, his disdain. Holmes lifted the lid of the box.

Inside was a small drop of silver, delicately engraved with curling vines of ivy. Fixed at the bottom of the fob was a pearl, its quiet luster a beautiful contrast with the brighter shine of the metal that surrounded it.

Holmes did not say a word.

Watson waited until he thought he might burst. He was on the verge of an apology when Holmes spoke first. His voice was very quiet.

“But Watson,” he said. “Pearls are for tears.”

Not knowing what to make of this reaction, Watson was startled into silence.

“It’s beautiful,” Holmes said. “Thank you.”

He did not sound like himself, but the gratitude was certainly sincere. Watson dared to hope Holmes might even be somewhat affected by the gift, though he said nothing further. He closed the box and set it on the small table next to him.

Watson rose to pour himself a brandy, needing some fortification after the last trying half hour, and brought one to Holmes as well. Holmes took it without a word, his other hand still resting on the box where he had left it, and they sat by the fire until it was time for sleep.

*****

The pearl hung from Holmes’ watch chain, and it did indeed suit him well. However, after seeing it dangling there, every day, week after week, Watson was no longer pleased that Holmes had chosen to wear it. It was so bright against the dark fabric of Holmes’ waistcoat, impossible to ignore. In spite of Holmes’ obvious appreciation, Watson had come to understand that it had not been a wise purchase, because he could not divert his attention from it. If he did manage to tear his gaze away, it slid down over Holmes’ lean thighs or floated up to the pale skin at his throat.

Watson noticed Holmes touching the tiny pendant, idly stroking the smooth surface of the pearl with one fingertip as he stared at nothing, lost in thought. Watson stared at Holmes’ hand. He was breathless, transfixed by the small movement. When he finally could bear it no longer, he stood, thinking to flee, but Holmes looked up and saw the direction of his gaze.

Holmes smiled. “It was a lovely gift, Watson.”

Watson swallowed and dragged his eyes to the carpet, following its intricate pattern. “I’m pleased you like it.”

“I’ve waited, always expecting my other birthday present at any moment, but it appears I wait in vain.”

“Another present?” Watson took a step toward the door. He still hoped to make his escape.

Holmes’ voice turned teasing. “Perhaps you think me greedy for wanting more when you were already so extravagant. But I assure you, this gift won’t cost a farthing.”

“I dare say I’m being very stupid,” Watson said, taking another shuffling step. “But I don’t follow you.”

After an agonizing pause, Holmes said, “Your heart, my dear Watson.”

Watson froze.

“No, no,” Holmes continued. “That was mine long ago, of course. Perhaps a kiss then.”

Watson looked at Holmes, surprised at the warm affection in his voice. There was the barest hint of a smile on Holmes’ face.

“Watson,” he said. His tone was chiding, indulgent. Of course it had been ridiculous to think that Holmes had not known.

Watson hesitated, but after a moment to gather his courage, he slowly made his way across the room to Holmes. In spite of having been given permission, Watson was dreadfully nervous. As his lips met Holmes’, however, his trembling stopped. The kiss was gentle and sweet, and it made Watson’s heart race. Like the pearl on Holmes’ watch chain, it seemed oddly fitting.

When they separated, Holmes’ small smile turned brilliant. “Do you know Watson, I was troubled when first I saw your birthday gift to me. Not that I am superstitious myself, of course, but for you to give me a pearl, such an unlucky thing—thought to bring tears. I did not like what it said about your state of mind.”

Watson shook his head, none too clear after the kiss and now confused by Holmes’ words. Indeed, Watson did not see why they should be talking at all.

“But then I remembered, Watson, how pearls are formed, and it seemed a most apt symbol.” Holmes slid his arm around Watson’s waist and pulled him close. He whispered into Watson’s ear. “Its layers are built around an irritant, year after year, with a beautiful result.”

Watson laughed. Perhaps only Holmes could make such a sentence romantic, but it was more perfect a declaration than Watson had ever allowed himself to imagine. He leaned close to Holmes, determined that their next kiss would be far, far less innocent than their first.

The End


End file.
